


symbiotic self-indulgence

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Consensual Relationship, Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M, Not Beta Read, Romance, Top!Sam, bottom!Dean, set somewhere around s1 or s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: At least their violence was out in the open.





	

They’d ventured into the cities once or twice. Into that alien world of metal and glass, gazing around with wide-eyed disbelief at the clones that marched around them with apathetic resolve. So many suits, so many dresses, so many bland, emotionless faces, hiding their alcoholism and pill-popping behind seamless makeup and corporate espionage. It had been suffocating. Isolating. The distance between _us_ and _them_ had been so stark that suspicious stares had followed them wherever they went.

People just _knew._

They weren’t born for modern society. The wilderness ran through their veins like liquid violence, and they were quick to react, even quicker to fight. Ready to raise their fists, ready to run through the streets with a knife between their teeth. They didn’t know how to have a conversation without running an angle, without lying on instinct, and concealing their every emotion behind a façade so well established that it would be impossible to remove. Their lives were battlefields; they answered violence with violence. And that wasn’t something that could just be turned off.

They couldn’t do smalltalk. They couldn’t do bullshit. They didn’t know how to skirt around issues, and ignore the blatant signs all around them. The stain on the lapel of a suit that said _cocaine._ The lingering smell of vomit that whispered _anorexia._ The hitched step in someone’s walk that couldn’t be passed off as an injury, because Sam and Dean could tell they’d been fucked up against the wall so hard that the bones of their hips ground with every movement.

They saw everything. And it sent them running, fleeing; back into the ramshackle bar they called home, back to the wilderness of the open road, back to the scratch and click of old cassette tapes, the hum of an engine they knew as well as the hush of their breath.

“Holy shit,” Dean exclaimed with wide eyes, slapping the steering wheel for punctuation, “how the hell did you ever survive out there?”

Sam chuckled, his eyes lazily trained on the windscreen. “It isn’t so bad.”

“It’s _horrible!”_

“We hunt monsters, Dean. Those were just _people.”_

Dean laughed, all sun-browned skin and bright eyes, teeth white and slightly too sharp. Sam watched and wondered when he’d fallen back into this rhythm. When exactly he’d learned to become his brother’s companion again, and live in shades of red, the world around him bleached dry by sun and soaked warm by blood. Their reality was like a cheap western movie, a parody of real life– and, like most things way out west, their lives were weathered, beaten-down, tilted almost sideways. Dust and dirt had eroded everything that had once shone, and alcohol sloshed over the edges of thick-rimmed glasses and onto sticky bar tables. It had taken a trip back into civilisation to really hammer the message home, really spell out how far they’d strayed from _normal_. Sam glanced around the car. At the flannel, the tired denim, the necklace that hung against Dean’s t-shirt, the musk of gunpowder and the scratches that dented nearly every surface. They were from an old world. A tired world, one that was full of so much _history_ that he couldn’t quite gain the strength to walk away now.

Maybe that was why he’d felt so uncomfortable at Stanford. He almost resented the fact that he’d _always_ need this.

“People are the real monsters, Sammy,” Dean said, raising a finger into the air as if he were the keeper of all wisdom, “you know that.”

Sam grinned. He supposed Dean was right; at least all their violence was out in the open.

He reached across the car, slid his hand onto Dean’s thigh. Fingers scraping over tattered jeans, stroking over the dusty stiffness of dirt. He wondered how long it’d been since Dean had washed his clothes.

“These jeans are filthy, Dean,” he admonished his brother quietly, eyes downcast, “were you raised by wolves, huh?”

Dean went still, the way he always did when Sam touched him like this. He blinked slowly, eyelashes dark against his green eyes, and his hand wandered downwards, wrapped around Sam’s wrist.

There was always a moment when Sam wondered if Dean would push him away. He’d been the one to start this, the one to push Dean against the wall one angry, drunk night– and Dean had answered him in kind. But there was always a push and pull, a tug and a shove, before they knew where the stood.

Dean moved Sam’s hand up his thigh, towards where his belt buckle rested above his crotch. He shifted his hips, minutely, a breath leaving his mouth in a hushed whisper. Sam rolled his lip underneath his teeth, bit down.

Yeah.

At least their violence was out in the open.

 

***

 

They found a motel, and it felt too easy. Too natural, too _right,_ as Sam pushed his own brother up against the door once it had closed. He reached down to hold him, hands curved around a slender waist as Dean cupped his neck. They kissed, and Sam wondered whether those people, those _normal_ people, could smell this on them too.

This sin.

He tugged at Dean’s shirt, ducked his head to bite at Dean’s collarbone the moment the fabric was out of the way. Dean held his neck, fingers tightening, head tipping back and making a quiet thud against the door. Sam moved against him, hips languidly thrusting, and he wondered what they looked like. What other people would see. It seemed odd that the couldn’t play the games that normal people could, and yet they could sustain this wicked co-dependency like it was a _typical_ thing to be doing.

And maybe that spurred him on a little. Knowing that this was wrong, knowing the _power_ of what they were doing.

“You ever think ‘bout what dad would’ve said?” Dean whispered. “If he’d known?”

Sam sighed, ran his hand down the soft ridge of Dean’s spine, feeling muscle and bone shift under his caress. He tongued the edge of a scar that butchered Dean’s collarbone, and the hitched inhalation that answered him made him smile. He felt carnivorous, like this. Animalistic.

“You know what he’d say,” Sam murmured in answer. He reached down, pressed a large palm to where he knew Dean’s dick was straining in his jeans. He didn’t even need to look. Not anymore. This was a dance they’d done so many times.

Dean whimpered, tightened his hold around Sam’s neck, pulling him close. And the action seemed somewhat strange, because it was almost as if Dean was _hugging_ him– Sam knew that comfort was a big part of this, for Dean. The warmth of the only person he trusted in the whole world.

Which sort of made Sam wonder what _he_ got out of it.

He took hold of Dean’s body, elated by how easy it was to take him and turn him around, walk him over to the bed and guide him down, press him into the mattress. He kissed a lazy trail down the curvature of Dean’s spine, content to take his time, the closeness between them sparking atomic reactions behind his ribcage. He could feel the cheap streetlight streaming through the window, settling over them like a haze, and Dean was bathed in dirty orange as he whimpered, facedown in starched sheets. It felt right. Just the perfect amount of griminess to suit their twisted relationship.

Dean felt rubbed-raw, dirty from the harshness of hunting, his body marred by white scar tissue and wounds that had yet to heal. Sam wondered what he told the women he met in bars, the sorority girls and the hookers– did he tell them he had been in an accident? Did he tell them he got into fights as a kid? Or did he not bother explaining, and just let them assume what they wanted?

Sam was surprised to realise he wasn’t jealous.

He knew that Dean belonged to him. There would be an endless supply of willing women, but there would only ever be one _Sam and Dean._ They were a package deal, and while Sam knew he could never escape this, he knew that Dean never could either.

Maybe there was something there. Something like, _if I’m stuck with you, I’ll take what I want._

A mutual greed.

Dean pushed his hips into the air when Sam tugged at his waistband, jeans and underwear pulled away in one rough yank. Sam blanketed Dean with his body, skin against skin, and a lightning bolt of adrenaline shot through them both. Sam snarled, pulled Dean’s hair, ran his teeth along Dean’s neck. Just because he could, just to hear Dean _moan_ like he wanted the people next door to hear. There was no prayer like this desire, no amnesia like the one they created together like this.

It was addictive.

“Need you,” Dean hissed, voice trembling and helpless, neck strained as Sam held him taut, “please, Sammy,”

_Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,_

The nickname felt wrong and right in all the best ways.

Sam couldn’t resist.

 

***

 

Dean poured him whiskey in a cracked teacup, lay beside him, gloriously naked and marked by the world’s cruelty. Sam sipped the alcohol, and it burned all the way down. Petrol and acid, cruel and biting. Dean curled like a cat onto his chest, and Sam felt larger like this. Stronger. Older, even though he wasn’t. He rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder and thought about when they were children. Thought about what this was, what they were doing.

And, as always, he decided to stop thinking.

“Love you, Dean,” he mumbled into the rim of his glass, turning his face searchingly towards his brother– as if asking for answers, but not really wanting any. Dean looked back at him, eyes bright like church windows. There were no shadows in his irises, nothing to obstruct the light of the streetlight as it turned bright green into tainted brown. Sam ran a thumb down Dean’s cheek, and it was only when Dean smiled lovingly at him that the worry in his chest disappeared.

“You goddamn sap.” Dean muttered, leaning forward to kiss him.

Sam didn’t need him to say it.

He just needed that smile, forever and always.

 

 


End file.
